


the rain pushes the buildings aside

by syllogismos



Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (and a temporary reprieve therefrom), (but mostly just fluffy smut), Anal Sex, Chance Meetings, Fluff and Angst, Loneliness, M/M, Oral Sex, Rain, Rimming, Slightly Awkward Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 18:06:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syllogismos/pseuds/syllogismos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rain has a way of changing the world, while it lasts.</p>
<p>But bloody <em>hell</em>, why does it have to be raining today, the day when John Watson is trying to make a decision like this?</p>
<p>And for God's sake, why does it have to be raining today, the day when Martin Crieff is trying to make a decision like this?</p>
            </blockquote>





	the rain pushes the buildings aside

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to the folks in #antidiogenes for encouragement and providing opinions on various options for the summary, even if I didn't end up going with any of the options I provided for voting...

Bloody _hell_ , why does it have to be raining today, the day when John is trying to make a decision like this? And why does it have to be raining like _this_ , exactly how it was that day when Mycroft came to Baker St. and fed John the lie that he’d later fed to Sherlock. Dutifully fed, just as Mycroft wanted, the bloody git. But Sherlock had surely caught him in the lie—it’d been written all over his face.

If John’s not careful, he can obsess for hours about when it started, and that day—that lie about Irene Adler’s ultimate fate—is a credible candidate. John lied to Sherlock to protect him, but Sherlock knew he was being lied to and suspected why. Deduced why. (Of course he did.) And so when it came to Moriarty, Sherlock did the same: he lied to protect John. Or, more precisely, _arranged_ a lie: the phone call and the feint of Mrs. Hudson being shot. A pretty little arrangement to get John out of the way and then ever so artfully bring him right back at the crucial moment. Protect John, but say goodbye. Don’t leave him with the guilt of having missed the main event. Don’t leave him with _If only I had been there, I could have…_. Leave him with _I was there, and I couldn’t_. It’s horrible and beautiful at the same time, and John’s chest still aches when he thinks of it.

But right now there’s a more immediately pressing matter: he’s soaked. He’s been standing outside this dingy-looking pub (The Red Lion, how unoriginal) in this grey and brown little town, pondering whether to go in. He couldn’t make this decision in London, but this dingy little pub seems as good a place as any. Any place but London. London is too full of Sherlock; the pulse and hum and bustle of the city is the only living bit of Sherlock that remains.

So John had got on a train this morning, and he got off here, in Fitton, a depressing little scrap of a town, the stench of wet manure drifting in from the country with the wind that’s driving the rain sideways and soaking him to the skin. It doesn’t matter if the food at this pub is terrible, John finally berates himself, he’s not here for the _food_. He pushes open the heavy door with its cracked and peeling paint, and despite the rainy gloom outside it still takes a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the darkness inside.

The pub is more or less exactly what he expected: full of locals on their lunch breaks, not many of them, since it’s already getting on to the second half of the afternoon. About half of them have pints of ale or lager sweating next to their plates; the rest are just eating greasy-looking sandwiches and chips. John takes a seat at the bar and orders a Boddingtons. The bartender clearly recognises him as someone he doesn’t recognise, but he says nothing beyond, “Anything else?” and then leaves John be.

John sips at his ale and tries to focus on the question of the day: what to do with Sherlock’s things. It’s been nine months, give or take, and the frequency with which Mrs. Hudson has been leaving messages for him is growing near exponentially. There have been three in the last week, and John suspects she’s actually getting serious about her threat to hand everything over to Mycroft if John doesn’t intervene.

The question is whether John _wants_ to intervene. John can’t imagine that Mycroft would actually get rid of everything. He cares, John _knows_ he cares. And he can afford to put everything in storage more easily than John can. So why not let him? Well, because maybe, _maybe_ he will get rid of everything. Sell it, chuck it, give it away. And that possibility is the length of cold fingers squeezing around John’s heart, stopping his breath with panic and a single word: _no_. Ella would say it’s unhealthy, which is why John hasn’t brought this up with her. She’d say it’s time for John to move on, to accept Sherlock’s passing (what a stupid fucking euphemism, _passing_ ).

And she’s wrong. (Maybe John _should_ fire her, finally.) John has accepted it, to the extent that he should. Because who knows with Sherlock? It’s not that stupid to hope; it can’t be. There are still so many things that don’t add up. Things that never did. Sherlock claiming he researched John before they met, which is plain impossible, especially given his mistake with respect to Harry’s gender. And Moriarty’s body found on the roof of Bart’s with ballistics indicating a self-inflicted gunshot wound. Not to mention Sherlock’s insistently solo taxi ride after Scotland Yard, after Claudette’s fateful scream.

The door to the pub creaks and groans as it’s opened, and John turns his head automatically to catch sight of the figure walking in. For a brief second, his world narrows, becoming dark at the edges where nothing matters, because– But no, it’s not Sherlock. Too short ( _much_ too short), for one, and ginger. Same unruly mop of curls, same pale complexion, and, well, _somewhat_ similar cheekbones. Thin too, but no posh trousers or closely-tailored shirts. Just jeans and a rather baggy jumper, revealed after the man’s removed his raincoat.

He takes a stool at the bar one away from John’s and orders a pint of lager that he seems to have very little interest in drinking. The bartender was gruff with him, but didn’t know his order. So not a regular. But he knew where to hang his raincoat, so not an out-of-towner like John. A local, non-regular, who doesn’t really seem to be interested in his mid-afternoon drink, so not an alcoholic. What’s he doing here then? Just holding his drink, making patterns in the condensation with the tips of two fingers and– _Oh_ , there it is: his left thumb. So, airline pilot, isn’t actually in town very often and, in all likelihood, doesn’t really drink. Today is different, then, and _damn it_ , but now John is _curious_.

* * *

For God’s sake, why does it have to be raining today, the day when Martin is trying to make a decision like this? And why does it have to be raining like _this_ , pissing almost sideways and finding its way inside Martin’s collar and into his bloody _ears_. It’s just not on, trying to decide your future when you’re chilled to the bone and you’ve just been driven out of your home by rowdy students celebrating the end of term.

There’s nowhere to go but The Red Lion. Martin was headed for Brewtiful Morning (Fitton’s overly cleverly named tea and coffee shop), but on approaching it, he’d seen that it was packed with students newly free from lectures and papers, and he’d not been in the mood to jostle elbows with strangers at the window seating or fight for a seat at one of the wobbly tables. So the pub it is. At least it’s warm, and he can hang his raincoat to dry properly, and all he has to do is order a pint of lager he doesn’t really want, and that’ll give him maybe two hours of peace to mull it all over.

It’s stupid, in a way, that there’s even a _question_ as to whether he’ll take the job with Swiss Airways. It’s exactly what he’s always wanted: a real piloting job with a real airline that pays a real salary. (Not that he’d ever thought the ‘real’ descriptor needed specifying, before MJN.) But it’s _Switzerland_.

Theresa’s out of the picture now, after an awkward admission that she’d never been looking for anything but a few casual dates, so Switzerland itself no longer has built-in advantages due to its geographical proximity to other places—or, rather, to one specific other place. Not that Martin was terribly devastated by her rejection; he wasn’t. And his love life isn’t quite so pathetic as the awkward conversation with Douglas regarding the quantifying of one’s ex-girlfriends by way of sports teams would make it seem. Ex- _girlfriends_ being the crucial word. Despite his teasing, Douglas is a good man, and Martin is almost entirely sure he wouldn’t be anything other than accepting of the fact that Martin’s ex- _boyfriends_ surpass his ex-girlfriends in number (all right, only by _one_ ), but it’s still a risk, coming out; it’s still something Martin hasn’t done.

The worst bit might be the fact that Martin already admitted in his interview that he’s not a _good_ pilot, not _yet_ , and Swiss Airways might be just a little bit crazy, having agreed to take him on. And maybe they’ll realise that they _are_ crazy, and he’ll be dismissed, and then he won’t get a piloting job anywhere ever again, so really there’s an awful lot riding on this. It’s a huge risk. And, well, part of what’s been holding Martin back from crossing that line from adequate to good is the fact that he’s so risk-averse. (Which doesn’t make this an ironic problem, for the record, just a predictable one.)

The bartender brings Martin’s lager, and Martin stares into it, idly drawing circles in the condensation gathering on the outside as he thinks. There are more silly things that he’s afraid of. Moving, for one. And that’s truly stupid. He hates the student house and his stuffy attic. The problem is just that it _is_ home and has been for so bloody _long_ , and moving in this case isn’t just finding a flat, it’s moving to another _country_ where he doesn’t speak any of the official languages, not that he’ll be spending the majority of his time there, but still: he’ll have to go to the shops, talk to his landlord, get around.

Gradually Martin grows aware of the fact that there are eyes on him, eyes belonging to the man two stools over to his left, the man he’d tried to avoid crowding by choosing to put an empty stool between them. He sneaks a glance, and the man looks away immediately, taking a long pull from his own pint. Martin doesn’t recognise him, but that’s nothing unusual. He’s got a few years on Martin, but not much more than five. There’s a not-unhandsome rugged and weathered look to his face, and his dark blond hair might be shot through with spots of grey, or it might just be the lighting in the pub. He’s clearly wet from the rain, must not have had a coat or an umbrella.

Martin’s looked for too long now: the man turns back, and so now it’s Martin’s turn to look away and duck his face into his drink. He sips at it reluctantly, forcing back a grimace. He’s never been a fan of lager, not really.

“Flown anywhere interesting recently?” the man asks, propping an elbow on the bar and turning towards Martin.

“Sorry?”

“Just making conversation.” He shrugs. “You’re a pilot. I was just wondering if you’ve flown anywhere interesting recently.”

“Sorry, how did you know–?”

The man waves away the question. “Doesn’t matter. Sorry– John Watson.” He extends his hand and shakes Martin’s in a gentle grip, murmuring a “Nice to meet you” after Martin stammers his own name in reply.

“I’m from out of town, just here for the day and got caught in this mess,” John continues, hooking a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the weather outside. “Just trying to pass the time.”

Martin takes another sip of lager to wet his mouth. He’s nervous, suddenly and inexplicably, but since he’d been getting nowhere with his own thoughts, there’s no harm in a conversation with a stranger. “Well,” he starts, “not so long ago we flew a client to Sardinia and tried to convince him it was Timbuktu.”

“What, really?”

John appreciates the story, and Martin finds the telling unexpectedly fun, even if it makes him despair of the decision he has to make all over again. Leaving MJN means never having another Birling Day, and, in all likelihood, not having the same kinds of stories at all. Maybe not having _any_ stories. Not to mention– But no, Martin doesn’t even want to think about what leaving MJN means in terms of the relationships he’d be leaving behind. That’s the worst of it.

“Can I ask what brought you to Fitton? We’re not much of a destination.”

Something tightens around John’s eyes, and he doesn’t answer for a moment.

“I have to make a decision,” he finally answers. “I needed to get out of London to have a bit of a think about it, but it’s not– It’s a long story, you know?”

“No, no, fine. I’m in a similar boat, actually, only mine’s not a long story.”

“Oh?”

John’s interest seems genuine, although perhaps it’s genuine only in the sense that he’s desperate to shift the subject. But, _hell_ , why not?

And that’s how Martin ends up unloading on John—first about the student house and how annoyed he was to be driven out of his own home by floorboard-vibrating music in the early hours of the afternoon when he’d only just returned from a quick and exhausting Toronto there-and-back at half three in the morning. John commiserates, adding his own story of a former flatmate who sawed at his violin at all hours of night. Halfway through his pint, which he’s been sipping at without noticing, Martin relaxes enough to tell him the rest of it: his “hobby” with MJN, surviving as a man-with-a-van, and the mess of the interview and the job offer from Swiss Airways. He doesn’t quite get into the fact that he’s closer to the rest of MJN than his family because that feels more than a little pathetic to unload on a stranger, especially one who keeps licking his lips and glancing at Martin’s mouth, giving rise to delicate and intermittent uncertain curls of arousal springing low in Martin’s belly.

Martin’s long finished his pint and John has finished two by the time the pub starts to fill with the after-work regulars and it starts to feel like they’ve run up against the limits of this, whatever it is.

“I should go,” Martin lies, and John actually knows almost enough about his life now to _know_ that it’s probably a lie, but regardless. “Um, thanks for listening, and good luck. Sorry about the bloody rain.” Martin shifts his gaze over John’s shoulder and adds, “Oh, I see it’s stopped finally.” John turns to look, and Martin seizes on the resulting moment as his opportunity to get up and begin his exit.

“Thanks for helping me pass the time,” John says. “And take care, whatever you decide.”

It would have been a smooth exit but for the fact that two steps out of the pub Martin realises that he’s left his raincoat inside. He groans and turns, turns nearly right into John Watson, who’s clutching the raincoat in one hand, laughing.

“You forgot–”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Actually,” John scratches at one eyebrow, “I’m a bit peckish, but I don’t know the first place to get a Chinese here, let alone a good one. If you’re not busy… My treat?”

Martin grins, can’t help it. “Yeah, there’s a good one just down the high street, but you wouldn’t know it to look at it.”

* * *

_I knew someone who’d have been able to tell by the bottom third of the door handle,_ John thinks and feels his throat clench. He swallows and forces out a smile. “By all means,” he says, bending in a mock bow, “Lead on.”

The Chinese is very nearly a bust. The restaurant is below ground level by a few feet, just a small stair leading down to it, and the combination of heavy rains and old architecture have resulted in two inches of murky grey water flooding the floor. John and Martin stand close together on the final step above the flood and peer inside. There are staff bustling about, but no one at the till.

“Take away! Only take away!” a man exclaims, approaching whilst wiping his hands on a soiled apron.

“Do you mind?” John asks, looking to Martin. “I don’t want to impose.”

“No, it’s fine. Sure.”

It _is_ good Chinese, _very_ good, luckily, and better yet, the take away has got John into Martin’s house and perched next to him on the edge of a futon bed. They trade cartons between them, brushing fingers at each passing. Martin seemed a little embarrassed, at first, leading him up to his cramped little attic, but he seems to have forgotten about it now, and when John shifts his legs wider, bumping his knee into Martin’s, Martin leans _into_ the touch rather than away from it.

When the slow kindling in his gut is becoming something he’s going to have to deal with sooner rather than later, John puts a hand to the corner of his mouth, Martin’s eyes on him. “You’ve got a little plum sauce,” he says and watches, mouth watering, as Martin darts his tongue out to sweep over the opposite corner of his own mouth.

“No,” John lifts a hand to Martin’s face, his thumb extended as if to wipe the sauce away himself. But Martin is leaning forward and watching John’s mouth as he licks his lips—good indicators, surely—so John uses his thumb to brace Martin’s jaw instead and leans in to lick the untouched corner of his mouth. Martin inhales sharply, mouth slack, and his chopsticks clatter to the floor as he lets them go to grab at John’s shirt between his shoulder blades, clutching desperately at the fabric. John kisses away from Martin’s mouth, along his jaw to his ear, where he breathes the question, “Do you want me?”

John can _hear_ the clicking of Martin’s swallow and the rapidness of his breathing, and so he presses his lips to the skin behind Martin’s ear and adds in a whisper, “Just tonight. Take your time.”

Martin rubs his temple into John’s hair and startles at the loss of contact when John pulls away to remove the last of the take away cartons from their precarious positions on Martin’s knees and in his own lap. Looking up from this task, John finds Martin waiting, chewing on his bottom lip, cheeks flushed. John raises his eyebrows and waits, savouring the bloom of anticipation in his belly.

“Yes, um,” Martin says quietly, and then, a bit louder, “Yes.”

John grins, and _God_ , the sudden flood of giddy happiness almost _hurts_. It’s the stretch of a long-neglected muscle group, and it has to _go_ somewhere, so John throws a leg over, straddling Martin and pushing him down on his back before he can even get a word out. He licks into Martin’s mouth and teases him with a slow, shallow exploration. Martin opens his mouth wider and tugs at John’s shirt, trying to pull him in closer and deeper, but John only pulls away to get his nose under Martin’s chin and tip his head back, sucking kisses over to his other ear.

“By the way,” he pauses to nibble at Martin’s earlobe, which provokes a gratifyingly uncensored grunt of frustration and a lift of his hips, “I lied about the plum sauce.”

John punctuates this admission by pressing his hips down into Martin’s, shifting until he can feel his own growing hardness meeting its twin, and Martin’s retort is replaced by a guttural exhalation and a desperate upward surge. Martin tugs again at John’s shirt, then shoves a hand between them to pull it out of John’s waistband and start to grapple with the buttons from the bottom up.

As much as John is on board with the removal-of-clothing plan, he’s rapidly becoming addicted to teasing Martin, so instead of helping, he starts up a slow grinding rhythm with his hips, pinning Martin to the futon below and counting the seconds until Martin gives up on his buttons completely. He’s somewhat impressed that he gets to nineteen, and he’s even more surprised that Martin’s next move after giving up is to grab John’s arse with both hands and push up as hard as he can. It’s not a very successful effort: he doesn’t have much leverage with John straddling his lap and his legs dangling over the edge of the futon at the knee. And so, with no elegance and very little evidence of coordination of limbs, Martin attempts to move himself up the bed to resolve this problem, squirming and flopping and then bracing with his heels and pushing once he’s got his feet on the bed. His hands never leave John’s arse, dragging him along and, ultimately, unbalancing him such that he ends up sprawled over Martin, chin digging into his shoulder, laughing.

Martin is still indisposed, breathing hard in recovery from the effort of dragging them both up the bed, but instead of continuing to press his advantage, John decides to take pity. He pushes himself back to a kneel and finishes stripping his shirt off, as much for Martin as for himself, suddenly remembering that he has nothing else to wear should he get it soiled, suddenly remembering that he’s known the man between his knees for mere hours.

John gets up to hang his shirt on the wooden chair at Martin’s card-table-cum-desk tucked under the eaves. He toes off his shoes and then shucks his jeans and socks before returning to the bed, where Martin is following suit, jeans already pushed down to his knees. John pulls Martin’s jeans the rest of the way off and then straddles him again, pushing his hands up under Martin’s jumper to smooth over the warm skin underneath. And it is warm, _very_ warm. John pushes the jumper up to Martin’s armpits, exposing his belly and the bottom of his ribs, swelling and collapsing with each breath. John’s caught by the sight, fixated by the evidence of time passing. In, out, in, out. He trails his fingertips up Martin’s sides and then traces the groove between his lowest two ribs. How long has it been since he’s taken notice of someone else’s breathing?

John’s still lost in the moment, just rubbing the pads of his thumbs in the spaces between Martin’s ribs, when Martin shifts his legs impatiently and John looks up.

“Can I–?” Martin asks, bumping his knee into the back of John’s thigh. John shifts his weight back to his knees and lets Martin rearrange them both to his satisfaction.

His satisfaction turns out to be John between his legs instead of straddling them, one of his own legs hooked around John’s hips, keeping him close. John is happy to be kept close; his hands steal back under Martin’s jumper of their own accord. Martin shudders when John thumbs over his nipples, and then he scrambles to tug his jumper off and loops his arms around John’s neck to pull him into a kiss.

The kiss is uncoordinated, at first; they bump noses, and John is reminded again that this is new, fresh—and, ultimately, transitory. The thought is translated into a surge of _wanting_ , and as he brings a hand to Martin’s jaw to hold and brace, the wanting turns to _having_.

When Martin’s hips start surging up again, more or less beginning to form a rhythm, John rolls to his side, insinuating one leg between both of Martin’s thighs and letting a hand wander down to Martin’s arse. Martin’s arse is firm and tight, and at first John just appreciates it, learning its shape and feel. Martin breaks away from the kiss and works against himself, pulling his leg tighter around John while trying to push his arse back into John’s hand. He looks John in the eye, a shy smile crooking one corner of his kiss-swollen mouth.

John feels a sudden urge to explain himself. “I like your arse.”

Martin laughs. He leans into John, pressing their foreheads together, and then he twists, reaching behind himself to pull at John’s hand, pulling it away from his arse before guiding it back, pushing John’s fingertips under the waistband of his pants. Hinting. He kisses John’s cheek, and John can feel his eyelashes flutter, two sensations of innocence in counterpoint to his own hand sliding fully into Martin’s pants, his thumb parting Martin’s arse cheeks. Martin moans, his breath hot over John’s ear, and John moves to take his mouth again in a kiss, capturing Martin’s bottom lip between his teeth, pleased when this provokes a groan that gradually climbs up octaves into a whimper. John suckles at Martin’s lip and kneads his arse, and Martin grinds desperately against John’s thigh.

John is shocked almost breathless when Martin suddenly tips him onto his back, pulling away from John’s mouth only to return moments later, kissing clumsily as he shimmies out of his pants and claws at the waistband of John’s. John worms a hand between them to hold his cock against his stomach while Martin strips him. Martin’s hand joins his, starting at his balls and sliding up slowly to interlace their fingers around his cock. Martin’s fingers are hot and nimble, and they peel John’s hand away, gaining access to his foreskin, pushing it up and rubbing through it to tease his cockhead, then letting it slip back. John reaches for Martin, aiming to grab him by the nape, but he misses, and then he registers lips and hot breath on the skin of one hip, and he props himself up onto his elbows to see Martin laid between his legs, mouth inches from the base of his cock and moving closer. Martin’s eyes flick up to John’s briefly, then he continues. One hand cradling John’s balls, the other holding his cock near the tip, he licks at the base.

Martin stops and looks up, licks his lips. “Can I?”

“You– Is that what you want?”

Martin pauses before continuing, a frown wrinkling the skin between his eyebrows. “What do _you_ want?”

“I, uh,” John starts to answer, but Martin has been idly stroking his cock, and he chooses this moment to rub his thumb over the slippery head of it and then at the sensitive spot on the underside, and John can only struggle haphazardly to recapture his train of thought. “ _Jesus_ , _fuck_ , I– I had the idea that maybe, if you like, I could— _God_ —fuck you. If you want.”

“Mm,” Martin agrees. “I do want. But I also wanted, first– Can I?”

“Oh God, _yes_ ,” John groans, flopping onto his back, but no touch of lips or even breath follows, so he lifts his head again to look down his body. Martin is chewing at his lip, uncertainty clear on his face. John reaches to thread his fingers through Martin’s hair. “What?”

“What I meant– What I mean is _should_ I? Without a condom?”

“Oh.” Well, _fuck_ , that’s embarrassing, particularly for a doctor. “I’m in the clear. I haven’t–” _Had sex in_ ages _? Been out of the wallowing stage of my grief following my best friend’s suicide for long enough to pull a date, let alone someone to have sex with?_ “My results were all negative, and since then I haven’t–” It’s still an impossible sentence to finish. “You?”

“I’ve just had a flight physical, and…the same. All negative, and I’ve not…”

“Good.” John threads his fingers farther into Martin’s hair, rubbing small circles into his scalp.

Martin’s eyes droop closed for a few seconds, and his hand stills from its slow strokes on John’s cock. The sound of the rain—when did it start raining again?—returns to dominance, hammering against the roof and lashing at the dormer window outset from the opposite wall. The sound makes John feel as if he should be cold when he’s not; he tries but fails to repress a shiver, and then he doesn’t try at all to repress his noise, halfway between a grunt and a moan, when Martin’s mouth descends on his cock.

Martin alternates long pulls up and down John’s cock with spells when he pulls back to suck at the head or lick around it. He holds the base of John’s cock gently, almost as if it’s something he thinks he might break, if he’s not careful. His other hand is gentle too, whether rolling John’s balls in his palm or tracing with the pads of his fingertips behind them, teasing. At one point after several sucking pulls, Martin pulls off John’s cock completely, letting it _pop_ from his mouth. John feels skin against his cock—not a hand, not a mouth—and lifts his head to look. Martin is leaning his cheek against John’s cock, eyes closed, panting. He’s reached down between his own legs, but John can’t see what he’s doing. Stopping himself from coming, possibly.

“ _Fuck_ ,” John exclaims, and he hooks Martin around the nape. “Come up here.”

Martin isn’t satisfied until he’s sprawled over John, straddling him with John’s cock nudging between his arse cheeks. His attempts to grind back against it aren’t very effective since he only pushes it away, but he’s still got one hand clamped tight around the base of his cock, still holding back. He nuzzles his face next to John’s and pants over John’s cheek.

“Kiss me,” John croaks, sweeping his hands up and down the planes of Martin’s back, occasionally stopping to grab at the curves of his arse.

Martin licks John’s cheek and then kisses it, humming. He shifts slowly, and still misses John’s mouth and gets more chin than bottom lip on his first try, but once he latches onto John’s mouth, his kisses are deep and wet, and the seal of their mouths is enough for John to feel the vibrations of the tiny noises Martin is making in the back of his throat, not audible over of the white noise of the pounding rain.

A bright flash bleaches the room, and it’s followed closely by a floorboard-rattling roll of thunder. Martin startles up and lets go of his cock to brace both of his hands on John’s shoulders. (His thumb catches the coin-sized shiny circle of the entry wound from John’s invaliding gunshot wound, but if Martin notices he doesn’t show it.)

Another flash of lightning and another boom of thunder startle them both, but even as Martin’s catching his breath, his thighs flex rhythmically around John’s waist, uncontrollable.

“Do you want–?” John starts, although, frankly, it’s _obvious_.

“Yeah,” Martin pants, reaching back to fist his hand around the head of John’s cock behind him and squeeze. “Fuck me.”

“Gladly.” John brings his hands up to Martin’s hips, intending to help him up, but he loses his grip as Martin scrambles off the bed entirely.

“Just, uh–” Martin shuffles not a little gingerly toward the door and snatches a dressing gown hanging from a hook. “Hang on just a tick. Um– Don’t go anywhere.”

* * *

As soon as he’s shut the attic door behind him, Martin stops to take a deep breath, pulling the dressing gown tightly around his waist and listening for noise on the floor below. There’s no way he can hide how hard he is—and _Jesus Christ_ is he harder than he’s ever been before, even thinking about it elicits a throbbing twitch and means he has to wait another second, another lung-filling breath, before he starts down for the loo.

He almost doesn’t recognise himself in the mirror. His mouth is obscenely swollen and red, his hair’s a mess, dark with sweat at his temples, and the flush in his cheeks makes his cheekbones stand out more. It’s not a _bad_ look, just different and unaccustomed, practically since he joined MJN. He raises a finger to his mouth, prodding at his swollen bottom lip, exploring the change. He can’t focus on himself though, not when his finger smells and _tastes_ like John. _John_. It won’t do to leave him hanging. The cabinet yields a clean flannel and hand towel, neither of them his, but extenuating circumstances can be claimed, surely. Martin wets the flannel under a stream of cold water and then wrings it half-dry.

Something coils tightly in Martin’s abdomen as he climbs back up to his attic and as he pushes open the door. It’s sharp and stinging and _melancholy_. It’s the fact that, for once, pushing open the door to his attic won’t yield an empty room and an empty bed. For once, he’s not alone. For once, he’s sharing the meagre space of his own home with another warm, willing body.

John has rolled onto his side, one hand on his cock, the other folded behind his head. He watches as Martin places the towel and flannel on top of the book resting on his bedside cabinet ( _The Right Stuff_ : horrifying, in many ways, but historically interesting.) Martin strips off his dressing gown with John’s eyes on him and _enjoys_ it, enjoys watching John’s eyes fall to his groin, where Martin’s cock is not quite as impressive as it was when he left the room, but still eager and glistening at the tip where he’s leaking. He can almost _see_ John’s mouth begin to water, and it makes him grin giddily.

But first. Martin pulls open the top drawer of the beside cabinet, rooting around for lubricant and a condom. (Thank God he already opened the box, even though he hasn’t used any. It depressed him sometimes, his box of aspirational condoms. But safe is better than sorry, and his last box had expired six months ago and needed to be replaced if only for, well, a situation like this.) He palms the condom and then hides it with the bottle as he brings both back to the bed, kneeling next to John.

John reaches for him immediately—or, rather, for his prick. John pulls him in, stroking both hands root to tip, then reaching back through his legs to stroke down his cleft, teasing circles around his hole. Martin clenches and pushes up against John’s hand. Their eyes haven’t disconnected ever since Martin returned to the bed, and Martin’s getting desperate, but he can’t look away, can’t break the connection. It’s John who does. He lets go and brings both hands to Martin’s face, pulling him in for a gentle, lingering kiss. He swings himself out from under Martin and gets behind him, his hands everywhere: cupping Martin’s arse, then sliding down and around to inner thighs, up over hips, over ribs, over nipples. He bends Martin over, pressing his chest to Martin’s back, rubbing his cock against the tendon joining Martin’s thigh and groin. Nudging Martin’s knees apart with his own, he begins a journey down Martin’s spine with his mouth, leaving a trail of kisses and licks. At the top of Martin’s cleft, he pauses; spreading Martin’s arse cheeks with his thumbs, he licks just barely between them.

“All right?”

Martin shifts from knee to knee. His face is on fire, and his cock feels like a finger’s touch will trigger an explosion. But he _wants_ , so much that it aches.

“Martin?”

Martin takes a deep breath and unclenches his toes and fists; the ache dissipates a little. “Yeah, OK.” And, because he might as well be polite about it: “ _Please_.”

John’s lips quirk against his skin, but then he’s spread open further and reaching for some semblance of a hold on the edge of the futon mattress to prepare for John’s tongue _there_. It’s not the kind of thing that can be prepared for. Martin twists his head to the side to breathe, and his view is out the dormer, the dormer streaked with rain and spotted with the reflected pale gold blurs of light from the street lamps below. John’s tongue descends from his tailbone until it hits puckered skin, where he stops to lap gently at Martin’s hole. Martin tries to focus on the puffs of air from John’s nose and the tight hold of John’s hands on his arse; his cock is throbbing sympathetically with each small lick. John buries his face deeper between Martin’s arse cheeks, deep enough to press his whole open mouth around Martin’s arsehole and _kiss_ , and Martin clenches his eyes shut tight. He opens them again at a tiny nip of teeth to the side of his hole; his view again is the dormer, rain-streaked, and along with the view comes a new truth: for ever after, a rain-streaked window at night, reverse leopard-spotted with pale gold, is going to recall to mind a tongue in his arse. John’s tongue.

John’s mouth is a magical torment, and as Martin’s arousal crests only to ratchet up higher, then still higher _higher_ , he starts to feel like coming is an impossibility. His world is only the hard pulse between his legs—natural, everlasting, immortal.

With a last sucking kiss and a slow lick back up to Martin’s tailbone, John’s mouth departs, and Martin feels the loss like a step taken but a stair missed. He twists and searches, but John already has the lube, and he’s rubbing his palm soothingly along Martin’s spine, then slicking his fingers and saying things that don’t matter _at all_ , things like, “Easy, I’ve got you.”

Martin groans at the breech of a finger. He hasn’t words, so he tries to communicate that this isn’t needed another way, pushing back into John’s hand and clenching hard to pull in deep. John can’t be hurried until after he’s seated two fingers inside Martin, working until he can move them smoothly in and out. When he removes them, Martin seizes on the chance, fumbles for the condom he’d smuggled from the drawer, pushes it at John.

“Now, _please_.” It comes out much more of a whine—a low whine—than Martin intended. “Do you mind?”

John takes the condom, looking slightly confused, and Martin drops back to his elbows. “I don’t like the mess,” he explains. Easier, when he’s not looking at John.

Martin rubs his face against the sheets and tries to keep still (almost impossible, that) while he listens to John ripping open the packet and getting more lube. John’s fingers return to his arse, spreading the excess, dipping inside to tease, and Martin’s so distracted that John’s lips closing around his earlobe are a surprise. John suckles until he calms, then licks a hot stripe behind his ear and asks, “Like this? Or another position?”

“Like this.” Martin hums, and his back bows at the loss of John’s fingers. “For now.”

John pushes in with the kind of superhuman patience that makes Martin want to grab the yoke and push (metaphorically speaking). He keeps one hand around the base of his cock and nudges in by tiny increments, stopping when his hand connects with Martin’s arse. He leans over and kisses Martin’s spine, then rubs his cheek over the skin, his stubble raising gooseflesh all over Martin’s back. He stays low as he finally removes his hand from around his cock and pushes in the rest of the way.

Martin has to remember to breathe, once John’s fully seated. It’s perfect: full, grounding, _now_. Well, it would be perfect, but for John’s not moving. Not moving his cock, at least. His hands are busy everywhere, sliding strokes out from Martin’s spine, tracing ribs and teasing nipples, cupping shoulders and biceps and thumbing the crease of elbows. John laces his fingers with Martin’s around the edge of the futon and tucks his chin over Martin’s shoulder and then finally, _finally_ moves. He pushes in first, despite being fully seated already. He pushes against all sense and reason, and Martin could almost cry with the perfect pressure and perfect heat. Then John pulls out, not far, and pushes back deep, and it doesn’t take Martin long to catch the rhythm.

John reaches for Martin’s cock, and Martin clenches what feels like every muscle in his lower half against the threat of coming at just that touch. It’s not quite what he wants, but almost. He arches, stretching his head back over John’s shoulder. Their ears touch and catch against each other, a startling intimacy. Elbows: leverage. Martin pushes up onto them, and John lets go everywhere, waits.

“Up,” Martin instructs.

John peels himself from Martin’s back, and even though it’s what Martin wants, he shudders at the loss of skin contact, at the tug of John’s cockhead against his rim before it’s free. John sits back on his heels, waits. Martin scrambles to his knees and twists to face John, and a wave of dizziness breaks over his head and shoulders.

“Easy.” John’s hands are steady on his shoulders, and John’s lips are open and warm, and if Martin closes his eyes, he can kiss and let the dizziness melt away like a huff of breath on glass. So he does. One of John’s hands plays with his nipples, but then it begins to skim lower, and Martin’s still not ready for that, so he turns back around, scooting back until his knees are framing John’s. The sloping attic walls aren’t finished, and they’re full of crossbeams and grooves; it’s not hard for Martin to find a handhold, and John gets the idea once Martin’s braced, hovering above his lap. John eases himself back in just as slowly as at first, and it’s just as well. This angle is tighter, less forgiving.

John holds Martin’s hips in his palms and thrusts up into him with smooth, circular rolls of his hips, adjusting the angle by pushing and pulling, steering Martin’s pelvis until each thrust forces something guttural out of Martin’s vocal cords.

After one particularly hard thrust that sets Martin’s thighs to shaking, John curls an arm around Martin’s chest and speaks into his ear, “Are you close?”

“ _God_ y–” Martin loses his words to a hiccough for air, startled by the glancing bump of John’s cock against his prostate. He grabs and pushes John’s hand down to his cock, an even clearer answer. John curls his hand around the base and pulls ever so slowly to the tip, and Martin grinds back onto John’s cock, feeling John everywhere but still wanting _more_.

“Let me,” John breathes, trailing off, and he nudges Martin’s knees wider apart (Martin’s thighs and hip flexors will _burn_ in the morning). One hand twisting around the head of Martin’s cock, the other bracing his hips, John fucks with even, long strokes, deeper than Martin would have thought possible. Martin flies apart in a frozen moment, his heart and his cock thundering together, a perfect storm. John is there too, Martin’s dimly aware, finishing with an erratic staccato of thrusts and then a prolonged pressing in accompanied by a low groan.

John’s hips stutter through his aftershocks, and Martin lets go his handhold but the movement throws him off balance, and they both tumble to their sides. Martin can barely feel John pulling out, but the cold, wet flannel registers as uncomfortable, and instinct tries to pull him away.

“Sorry.” John kisses the top of Martin’s shoulder, nudges his knee forward, and wipes away sweat and excess lube. He refolds the flannel and pulls Martin to his back so that he can get the splashes of come on his stomach too. He finishes by tossing the flannel back to the bedside cabinet (good aim, Martin notes, as he can’t help but look for the landing), and he bends to swirl a kiss onto Martin’s belly to the left of his navel. Martin reaches, tries to tug at the short hairs at the back of John’s head, but his fingers don’t quite gain purchase.

John moves up, eventually, and then he’s next to Martin on his back. Martin can only feel the glow of his body heat and the rhythm of his breath, but it’s enough.

“When did it stop raining?” John asks.

Martin looks to the window and sees that John is right, feeling heat flood his cheeks at the new memory. “I don’t know.”

* * *

Without the rain, it might have been awkward in the morning. But the rain wakes John first, before anything else. The slapping patter of drops against glass and the now far off rolls of thunder pull him up from sleep slowly, his thoughts rising to meet the world around him gradually like the rock formations and teaming, vibrant pools exposed slowly by the running out of the tide.

It’s dark, despite the hour. The density of the cloud cover keeps the world in low light, unreal. John’s mostly tucked under a duvet, heavy and warm. The slope of the wall-ceiling above him is unfamiliar but not without a foothold in his memory: slender fingers clutching to an exposed beam and a frankly _glorious_ arse in his lap, smooth and hot and tight around his prick. It’s a good memory to wake up to, even if the bed is empty next to him.

Investigation reveals Martin tucking two pairs of socks into a small suitcase laid open on the old wooden chair set before the card table that serves as his desk.

“Morning.”

“Only just,” Martin answers, his mouth twisting at one corner. “Sorry, I have a van job this afternoon and a flight to Belize this evening.” Martin fetches his dressing gown from the hook on the door and rolls it tightly to tuck in along the edge of the case.

John watches; he props himself up onto his elbows and flexes his toes, briefly mesmerised by the shapes they form under the duvet. Coffee, he needs _coffee_.

“I could use a spot of breakfast before the train. Have you eaten?”

Before Martin can answer, his stomach growls audibly.

“Seems not,” John laughs. He flips the duvet off and stands, trying to twist out of the sudden painful reminder of the previous evening’s activities. It doesn’t work, but that’s not precisely a disappointment. “I’ll just– The loo? Then you’ll tell me where to take you out for a proper fry-up?”

Even the fried tomatoes, horrifyingly out of season, taste wonderful, John notes to himself. It’s just the way of things, frustrating though it is. When you’re hungry—nigh hollowed out—from a night of amazing sex, absolutely anything and everything tastes fantastically good.

Martin is, if anything, eating almost more enthusiastically than John. Nothing impolite, but there are little signs. He cuts his sausage into pieces and butters both his slices of toast before he starts eating, so as not to have to slow down. He ignores his coffee until he’s down to just toast and beans.

“Does it ever bother you, living out of a suitcase so much of the time?”

“No,” Martin answers immediately. “You’ve seen where I live. Not that we get put up in places that are better, but…I don’t know. I suppose I just don’t see how it matters. There isn’t much I need, on a daily basis. I’m just…me.”

John can’t think of anything to say in response.

“Maybe I’ve been doing it so long that I can’t see anymore, how strange it is,” Martin laughs, a spark of bitterness flaring beneath his words.

“No, I think you probably understand better than the rest of us.”

Martin frowns. “Maybe.”

“Yeah, maybe,” John echoes, distracted by the thought that if Sherlock isn’t dead, he must be living out of a suitcase, constantly on the run. It’s the first time he’s thought of Sherlock in nearly twenty-four hours. Almost a new record.

John doesn’t have anything other than what he’s wearing, so a stop back at Martin’s house is unnecessary. A lent umbrella, however, provides an excuse for Martin to walk him to the train station. The rain is now a soft, steady drizzle, but it’s still _wet_.

Their timing is damned near perfect: seven minutes before the next train to London. No rush, and no awkward question of whether Martin should wait to see John off. Just enough time to part ways, enough time for Martin to cock his head and pull John by the sleeve into the empty corridor leading to the men’s. It smells rather strongly of lemon-scented floor cleaner, and the floor is slippery underfoot, but it’s better than the stench of stale urine. Better for kissing, that is.

Martin’s mouth is gentle on John’s, simultaneously uncertain and uncaring. His tongue is warm and thorough. John yields, pulling Martin in by the waist, but only pulling him closer, not attempting to take control. It’s nice to let go. Martin’s says goodbye to his mouth extensively, then to his jaw, his ears, to the hollow of one eye. He hears an announcement John misses completely and pulls away.

“That’s– You should probably go.”

John replays the audio track in his head and recognises the final boarding call for his train. There’s no time for second thoughts. He takes Martin’s face in his hands and kisses him a final time without finesse.

“Good luck.”

“Thanks.” Martin smiles. “You too.”

The train is crowded. Five minutes in John digs his mobile from his jacket pocket to distract himself from the bump and brush of perfect strangers. The screen glares at him with the evidence of two missed calls, two new messages. Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft.

“Just letting you know that I’ve taken care of everything, John. It will all be in storage by the end of the day, and Mrs. Hudson won’t have to lift a finger. You needn’t even come to Baker Street, if you’d prefer. Three o’clock, if you do decide to grace us with your presence.” There’s a pause in the message before Mycroft concludes, “See you then, or I won’t.”

A seat opens up by the window, and John snatches it before he rings Mrs. Hudson back to tell her he’s not going to come to watch Sherlock’s things being packed and taken away.

“That’s all right, dear. Mycroft’s taking care of everything, finally. I just can’t keep the flat without a tenant forever, you know, at my age.”

“Of course not, Mrs. Hudson. I’m sorry I wasn’t very good about ringing you back,” John apologises.

“Well–” Mrs. Hudson starts, but John cuts her off.

“I did have one question. Do you remember… You packed away his clothes?”

“Yes.”

“Dressing gowns included?”

“Of course. Well, all but his second best. Strange, that. I remember noticing it was missing.”

There aren’t very many things you need, on a daily basis. But a dressing gown is essential, if you’re Sherlock Holmes. John smiles, tucks his mobile back into his jacket, and turns to watch the scenery fly by the window, rushing to take him back to London.

* * *

Martin actually has something to whistle about, driving to London. The whole previous twenty-four hours, for one—although really the fantastic sex should count for about a thousand. His van started without a fuss, for another, and the rain’s finally stopped. To top it all off, the city job this afternoon should come with a generous tip; Londoners always tip well.

So Martin whistles as he drives and drums his fingers on the steering wheel. Even the previous day’s anxiety about the Swiss Airways job is starting to feel silly. Why shouldn’t he take the risk? Why should he be afraid of the marginal possibility of failure, when there’s a much greater chance of a dramatic change for the better?

When he’s forced to a stop by a red light, Martin has a sudden, jolting thought. He scrabbles into his jacket pockets, searching. But all is fine: he _hasn’t_ forgotten the slip of paper with the address for the city job written on. There’s the scrap of paper, and there’s the address: 221B Baker St.

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, I don't really know where this came from. It's not the (unposted) John/Martin WIP I intended to work on last #antidiogenes weekend. I stalled out pretty early on that. This, on the other hand, just popped into my head when I rediscovered Moby’s 1999 album _Play_ and heard ‘The Sky Is Broken’ for the first time in close to a decade. Title comes from the lyrics to that song.


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